Idle Hands
by RFLupin
Summary: How Thranduil came to love the cello.


**Title:** Idle Hands

**Author:** R. F. Lupin

**Rating:** G

**Disclaimer:** If I owned LOTR . . . I can't even finish that, it's just too crazy.

**A/N:** I wrote this a while ago, in 2004 I think, for a writing challenge on one of my online groups. It was amazing back then . . . which means it's decent now. It's one of the few LOTR things I've written that I'm actually proud of, and was inspired by the principal cellist in my orchestra then, who has since graduated and failed at life. Oh snap.

Anyway, please enjoy!

Idle Hands

Thranduil peeked around the corner, straining to catch more of that soft melody that was resonating from the study. He had often heard it before, but now, after his mother had told him to go find someone else to bother, he was finally going to be brave and discover what it was.

As quiet as only an Elf can be, he slipped through the small opening between the slightly ajar doors and scurried to the corner behind his favorite chair. From there, he had a clear view of the room and its occupants. What he saw surprised him.

Seated in the center of the room was his father, Oropher, who was holding one of the funniest looking things the little Elfling had ever seen. It was very large, taller than he himself, and it looked like it was made of wood. There were long strings of metal running up the length of it, and those were what his father was dragging a long stick with some hair on it across. Thranduil concluded that was where the pretty music was coming from, and it looked so intriguing that the Elfling wanted to try himself.

"Ada!" he shouted, bursting from his hiding spot and bouncing to the center of the room. His father glanced down at him and smiled without ceasing to play.

"Yes, what is it?" he asked calmly, even though he could already guess his son's mind. Thranduil pointed timidly to the large wooden thing his father was playing and said timidly,

"Can I try? Please?"

His father smiled and nodded. Thranduil eagerly jumped into his dad's lap and clapped his hands with delight.

"This is a cello," his father explained as he placed each of Thranduil's fingers on the skinny black part, even though they didn't reach the whole way around as they were supposed to. He then instructed the Elfling on how to hold the stick thing, which he told Thranduil was called the bow.

The tiny Elfling beamed and started to scrape the bow wildly across the strings on the fingerboard (the only place his short arms could reach), making screeching and dreadfully scratchy noises as he pretended to play like his dad. Oropher laughed and then told him with a little practice, maybe one day he could lead the orchestra.

And that's how it started.

Oropher quickly saw to it that his son got his own cello, and gave him daily lessons. Thranduil practiced with vigor unmatched by any, and even before the year was out, he was already a very capable musician. He learned about note values, clefs, and how to read music. Then, he was shown how to shift back and forth between positions on the fingerboard. Finally, he found out about vibrato, which made his tone nicer and made him feel very professional.

But most of all, he learned about practice and dedication. He learned that without those, he would never be able to be like his father and make the strains and chords of music obey him in a pleasing way. He learned that playing the cello, or any instrument for that matter, wasn't just something one could pick up and be perfect at in one day. He had to practice and work hard to get better, which is exactly what he did.

He did not love practicing all days, though. Indeed, there were many occasions when he refused to play because he thought the pieces to be too difficult, and nothing seemed to make sense. His hands and fingers went exactly where they weren't supposed to, and he couldn't do anything to deter them. But as time went by, he found that it became much easier with practice and attention to detail, and that he could in fact make his appendages do what he wished. Once he figured this out, playing became more regular and enjoyable for him.

Thranduil then found out about the other string instruments, and he wanted to play those, too. He soon played the violin, viola and string bass, but the cello remained his favorite by far. It had a certain quality to it that he loved, and a sound that was all its own. Maybe this love he had for it was because he had started with it, but the reason didn't really matter. All that counted was that Thranduil was happy when he played his cello, euphoric almost, and his skill was unmatched by nearly everyone he met.

One day, many years after his first lesson and countless calluses later, Thranduil was alone in the orchestra chamber playing his cello. He did that sometimes; playing just for the sake of making music. It was nice to be alone while he did this, without anyone stopping him to compliment or comment on his abilities. He enjoyed what people said about him, but it did get a bit annoying sometimes. All he really wished to do was make the cello melodies groan with the weight of a concerto or flitter along with the lightness of a jig. And today, he was doing just that.

He was so far gone into his blissful playing state that he failed to hear the door creak open, nor did he see his father come in and take a seat quietly to listen to his son. Oropher waited for Thranduil to finish the piece he was playing, one that both Elves knew very well, before he spoke.

"Well done," he complimented quietly. Thranduil looked vaguely in his father's direction and smiled modestly.

"I try," he said, creating an imaginary tune on the fingerboard as he spoke. "But I think I missed a few accidentals . . . "

Thranduil had become something of a perfectionist, but only in matters of music. All the notes had to be absolutely in tune and exacted faultlessly for him to be satisfied, but more than that, he had to enjoy what he played. If that was not so, then he would not put all his effort forth to make the piece its best.

Luckily, it was extremely hard to find a composition that Thranduil did not like.

His father shook his head, but he understood.

"I see that you have come a long way since the first time you played," his father reminisced. Thranduil chuckled and nodded. The discords he'd made that day had sounded angelic then, but looking back, about the only thing worse than them was the sound a goat made when its tail got stuck in a door. Even then, it was a close match. He told this to his father, who laughed and heartily agreed.

"Yes, but we all start somewhere, do we not?" Oropher said. His son had to agree, even though he found it very hard to imagine his father scraping away at a simple scale. "I do remember the first time I played, all those years ago . . . And I will say that I was far worse than you."

"Is that even possible?" Thranduil asked disbelievingly.

"Yes, I am afraid that it is, and was so with me," Oropher replied. "But fortunately, we do not stay in that state forever. We become better and learn to master all that is at our disposal. Things that once seemed impossible melt away to the beatitudes of simplicity, and playing is no longer a chore, but a joy. You find yourself seeking out your instrument when you are grieving or distraught, and ascertain there the relief from stress and frustration that few things can give. It becomes your best friend, the only thing certain in a world of confusion and chaos. If all else changes, the one simple thing you will still be able to hold on to will be the music you can create and enjoy for eternity.

"You see my son, music, in and of itself, never changes. It always was, always is and will be forevermore. It is universal, constant, and unwavering. Every culture and nation has music in some form or another. That is why it appeals to me so; everyone can relate and all people from every land can appreciate it for what it is.

"And the fact that you have chosen to become a part of this great movement has pleased me to no end. To see my son furthering the traditions of our people, forging the bridge between thought and action, adding to the glorious mixture of already varied expressions your own unique notions and sonance . . . That, I think, is all I ever really wished for in a child. And now, you have given that to me, and for that, I thank you and praise you for all your efforts."

Thranduil sat, stunned into silence by his father's words. Strangely enough, though, it all made sense to him and he grasped with a firm hand the concepts that were spoken of. After a few minutes of reflective quiescence, Thranduil spoke softly, saying indirectly that he agreed.

"I am simply glad not to have idle hands anymore."

: e.n.d :


End file.
